


The Last of House Gaspard

by Soak



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Eagles Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, Returning Home, Singing, petrashe, sad singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26017186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soak/pseuds/Soak
Summary: On their march to the Silver Maiden, Ashe feels the pull of home. His adoptive family sleeps not far away. He cannot turn down their call.Petra follows. She heard the pain in his steps.Perhaps she can help shape what blooms in the ruins.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Petra Macneary
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	The Last of House Gaspard

"Professor?"

"Oh, good morning, Ashe. Is there something on your mind?"

"Uh… yes. Yes, there is."

Despite the sounds of an army rousing, with its beasts howling and wagons groaning, Petra heard those soft words as they glided through the cracks in the canvas. She paused in her tracks, her boots dragging in the mud. The morality of eavesdropping never occurred—that tint in his voice, subtle and polluting like forgotten ink at the edge of parchment, just waiting to be smeared; she knew.

"I… I would like a leave of absence." A pause, pregnant enough to let the horns blare thrice. "One night, that's all I'm asking for. I- I… we'll be passing Castle Gaspard on our way to Arianrhod. I…"

Another beat. A pair of soldiers stared at Petra as they walked by.

Then came the faint rustling of map edges rolling together. Byleth had found the situation dire enough to halt her planning. "Go. Take your riders with you—on wyverns you can catch us before we approach the Silver Maiden."

A long, shaking exhale—an arrow on a taut bowstring that had been eased to rest. "Th- thank you, Professor. I'll leave at once."

Leather and cloth sighed as they bowed. One pair of footsteps turned and set off.

Petra looked around, and finding the clouds had overtaken the sun, evaporated into the shadows. Her work came easier there. Two whispers to her confidant songstress. A knowing glance to the somnolent one. The hermit, bribed.

As she and her wyvern took off into the morning sky, Petra remained behind. She was always in camp, she had never left, she was simply tired from a long march. Perhaps homesickness was to blame, they'd lie for her.

They were still telling the truth.

\--

Ashe dreaded the quiet. Separate from peace, devoid of the luxuries that made life's pauses worthwhile. No fables, no recipes to improvise, no vistas on a lazy afternoon. Instead, alone, anxious, his breath was catching on each footstep. It was harder to walk the cobblestone now, war-torn, both him and the setts under his toes.

The Gaspard cemetery was a ruin, the final cruelty for a dead bloodline.

Heavy clouds hung like the banners once had, proud Faerghus blue swapped for morose grey. They fell so low from the sky that it seemed to swallow up the nearby ramparts, the keep gone entirely. Pale, shriveled greenery wound its witch fingers around the fences and headstones. From what had once been a renowned noble line—then played, betrayed, and executed—it was sobering to see even Nature herself creep in at every corner.

In the quiet, Ashe arrived at his destination. No, more of a way-point.

Two plaques, recessed in the dirt, at risk of being swallowed whole.

"This isn't over, Lonato." He looked slightly to the left. "Christophe. I know now. You were… caught in the middle. Between two powers you couldn't see—you never could have. And they… they hardly saw you as anything either.

"I know _why_ , finally… a- and I wish I didn't. It was all for… nothing. Absolutely _nothing_.

"I… I'm so… _so_ sorry."

He waited. Nothing replied to him—not the Luna Knight, not the whistle of a kettle, not the trill of sparrows. Not the memories of his long-dead families, adopted or biological; nothing. Silence.

Ashe's legs gave out beneath him, crashing his knees into the cold stones below. His head hung, drooping and heavy, his pale hair streaking towards the earth. Attempts to control his breathing were like trying to clear the skies of their gloom; rain was a foregone conclusion. Instead, he balled up his fists. That flame, the one he had felt after Ailell when Byleth pulled the wool away, roared hotter than ever.

The quiet fled into the deep. Now, fire and water; rage and grief.

"I swear, as the last knight of House Gaspard, to break them both."

\--

Petra pushed through the servant's entrance. Nobody had bothered to lock it. The lords defecting after the Empire's victory at Garreg Mach were more concerned with their own territories. Almost a month, these halls sat vacant.

She palmed the flat of her axe, slung at her hip—just to remind herself it was there. The desperate and the vicious often converge on remnants like these.

For now, though, it seemed like only the windy halls called out to her. The veneered tables and cabinets were frosted with dust. Blackened logs, not yet consumed by time, sat dormant in the hearths. Corners of rugs had been upturned by the last boots to touch them—echoes of life.

There was little to be found in the reception halls and kitchens and parlors. Nothing but the same pretentiousness that had irked her when she arrived from Brigid. Rooms for the sake of rooms; tapestries that all bore the same design, bludgeoning the guest over the head.

Perhaps it was better when the living had breathed their warmth into it.

A crash came from upstairs; boots stomping, metal clashing, voices screaming. Petra vaulted over the railing of the nearby staircase, clearing three steps with each bound. The silver axe was already in her hands as she came to the landing. Hallways loomed in either direction.

Left, nothing. To the right, the violent tearing of fabric and swears.

She took off, legs churning, too hurried to pad her footsteps like normal. Each slap of her soles felt like a clock, ticking down the moments. He was a powerful fighter in his own right, but surprise turned every table, upended every skill-set.

The unmistakable _clang_ as steel came down hard and was forced away.

There. Petra honed in on the room, the source of the attack. With a yell, she charged and drove her boot through the door.

Sound exploded—the thunderclap of her entrance and its aftershock as the door kept swinging, slamming against the masonry, shattering some glass vase or another. Then came the scream of the lone man in the room; Petra's bewildered huff; a pivot and a footstep. The man, on instinct, lashed out with his own weapon.

One axe shaft caught another, Petra stopping the blow just inches from her head.

"Ashe?"

His eyes widened, already red and jeweled with tears. He let go, metal clattering on the floor. Stumbling backwards as if he'd struck himself, he fell into the small altar. Seiros' banner had been shorn in half. Silver trinkets and icons scattered like early snow. Ashe slumped to the ground, his breathing torn and ragged.

Petra reeled, uttering a few words in her native tongue. Never had her sky partner been so distraught. He was always the anchor, the light among war's darkness, a point of reference when sorrow and guilt and battle spun her around. Charging head-long was easy knowing he was there, regardless of her foe. Except with something like this—what she had been trying to prevent.

She steeled herself, shuffling forward, kneeling in front of him.

"Ashe? _Mo pháirtí?_ "

"I…" That's as far as he got. Emerald eyes squeezed shut, unable to stem the flow as his sobs grew. They bounced and pounded off the walls like a headache.

Petra clamped her mouth tight, beating down the swell of emotions in her chest. She could bring him back, show him the way out that she found years ago. Soft footsteps came easier to her than soft words for a broken soul, but for him, she would find a way.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in close. Petra threaded her fingers through his hair, ignoring the droplets that fell over her. Her lips moved slowly, whispering into his ear. " _Mo… mo stór,_ what is wrong?"

"I… I'm so _angry-"_ Ashe fought through another sob. "How can… I just want to make them _hurt_." He punched the floor, his metal gauntlets crunching. "I hate them.

"They took… everything. _Again_."

Petra shifted, trying to hold him better. His breathing grew harsher, like a bellows stoking the furnace. Each gasp shook his body, his arms trembling as they hung loose at his sides.

She knew. First her father, then her home.

"I know… I am sorry, Ashe." Petra sighed, heavy on her heart. Her whispers grew softer: "Please, be letting the feelings fall out—I am here. I… will be staying with you, for as long as it is taking."

Ashe shuddered, as if some beam within had broken. He let his weight truly fall against her, the grief and pain running over like a river's first melt of spring. Dormant energy had been unearthed from the long cold, with nothing to hold it in.

"I want them back."

Petra had to shut her eyes.

"They… they were kind, good people. We used- used to sit here, all of us. Sing hymns when the priest was sick."

She couldn't let herself break down with him. The weight wasn't new. There was forever her grandfather's plans. Her mother's hope to not lose another across the waves. Her people's freedom. She could shoulder another.

"I just want to hear th- them, one more time. But I… it's been so long, Petra. I can't… I can't even remember. Wh- why can't I remember?"

His plated armored scraped on the floor, the harsh ringing cast out into the air like a dirge. Ashe tried to rise but couldn't. One hand came up, pressed along her back, seeking something to cling to.

Petra took in a long breath. "There is… a song I have memories of. I would be hearing my mother sing it, without her knowing, before I was taken. It was giving me strength when I was first in Fódlan. I was… I am hoping when I sing it, she is doing the same."

She gulped, trying to collect herself. Her lips skimmed his ear. "Would you be liking to hear it?"

His breath came out in pieces. Tears kept dropping from his chin to her arms. Ashe nodded against her.

Singing it by herself on lonely nights was hard enough. She suffered through muttering it into the stars, maybe the ones her homeland saw. To give it the full breadth of life, the depth of her voice that she knew wasn't great…

She could bear it. She had to.

Petra's exhale broke and chopped up as she straightened herself. The Brigidi started low, uneven, from the base of her chest:

_"Seal dá rabhas im’ mhaighdean shéimh,_

_‘S anois im’ bhaintreach chaite thréith,_

_Mo chéile ag treabhadh na dtonn go tréan_

_De bharr na gcnoc is in imigéin."_

Ashe sobs dimmed. His breathing began to settle, the waves of emotion pulling back, little but sea foam.

_"He's my champion my Gallant Darling,_

_He's my Prince, a Gallant Darling,_

_I've found neither rest nor fortune_

_Since my Gallant Darling went far away."_

It was not a happy song. There was a reason her mother only sang it in the empty bedroom. Fate and memory could be cruel. Somehow, this was the one that pulled at her heartstrings.

_"The cuckoo doesn't sing cheerfully after noon,_

_And the sound of hounds_

_isn't heard in the nut-tree woods,_

_Nor a summer morning in a misty glen_

_Since my my lively boy went away from me."_

Her voice trembled, each reverberation poking her at the precipice. The cold stone walls rang the lines out longer than canvas tents or Brigid wood.

Ashe sniffed. His other hand wound around her, locking his fingers together.

_"He's my champion mo Ghile Mear,_

_He's my Prince, Ghile Mear,_

_I've found neither rest nor fortune_

_Since my Gallant Darling went far away."_

The chorus pierced her like it always did. She could forever feel the pain in her mother's voice. And yet, Petra also felt the warmth of her closeness and the scent of her hair. Twin, opposite emotions, dueling in her chest. She always came out stronger for it. Her resolve hardened, understanding the grief that so many Brigidi must feel. Never should they feel it again.

Trickles of saltwater crept down her cheeks. She kept her head high.

_"Gallant Darling for a while under sorrow,_

_And Brigid completely under black cloaks…"_

Petra stumbled. She bit her lip, drawing a quaking breath. Like this war, the finish was in sight.

_"…I have found neither rest nor fortune_

_Since mo Ghile Mear went far away."_

The last note hung in the air, an arrow at the apex, ready to come hurtling down.

She couldn't stop herself. Petra hung her head, leaning back against him. Both slumped in their grief, they even so propped each other up—two sides of an arch.

"I… I am sorry, Ashe," she whispered. "They are deserving better. Whatever you are asking… I will be there with you. I will… always be beside you, never have doubt."

There was one phrase she always craved, and never got, in those terrible years.

"You are not alone…" Softly, she added, " _Mo_ _ghile mear, mo grá."_

What Ashe couldn't understand, he could still feel. His arms wrapped tighter around her. His trembling had calmed, mostly, instead letting his soul drain. He lingered in the exhaustion, the emptiness, and maybe, the warmth. No fire, no hatred—something soothing.

Had it always been her?

"It… it's getting late, Petra. You should… go." By the goddess, how those words stung to say. "Someone will notice you're gone."

Petra shook her head, her cheeks crossed with trails that glistened in the dim light. "I am staying."

He pulled away, his hands unlocking, sliding to her waist. The idea of letting go completely was too much. She had to do it for him, she had to be the brave one, like she always was.

"Petra…"

"I was meaning my words, Ashe."

"What?"

" _Always_." She looked over his face, finding those sea-green eyes, ever reminding her of home. The freckles like sea shells along the shore. "I am… I am needing you as well."

Ashe heart leapt, fluttering against a battered rib cage.

The undertow of his irises dragged her close. Petra knew not to fight a riptide. Their foreheads met each other, noses brushing. His breath was hot on her cheek.

"If I cannot be staying with you… I will be outside your door. You will not be turning me away." She could feel the ghosting sensation of his lips, hair-widths away. "You are not alone… my gallant... my love."

Their mouths met, slow and exhausted, tear-salted and complete. The last knights of House Gaspard, the first knights of Brigid. With what the spirits tore down, new life always bloomed.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates @ [my twitter](https://twitter.com/cozysoak)


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